Of Belstaff's and Twigs
by rainbow letters
Summary: Sherlock takes his young son to the park 'to blow off some steam'. Father/Son bonding and some fond memories ensue.


Another winter warmer for those who enjoy the fluffier side.

Can be viewed as a one off or a sequel to 'Revelations and Intentions'.

Summary: Sherlock takes his young son to the park 'to blow off some steam'. Father and son bonding and some fond memories ensue.

* * *

Autumn crept upon London slowly, almost lazily. The trees relinquished their hold over their summer wears of fresh green, slowly fading to crisp hues of red, orange and yellow. It was late November and it had only just gotten cold enough to need something more substantial than a single layering of clothing outside. Regent's Park was quiet on this particular Sunday morning, save for Sherlock and his young son.

Ever since his son had found his feet, in quite the literal sense it also seemed to equate to a spike in his energy levels too. Sherlock decided to take up the advice of his beloved partner this morning when she suggested he take their son for a brisk walk before she left for work. He believed her exact words were 'let him run off all that energy he seems to have bottled up'. He had to admit that he didn't quite see the logic to her argument at first. Children simply didn't bottle up energy. Most likely as their son grew, his mind and muscles did too. Yet after the child had already tugged Toby's tail twice this morning, Sherlock did not fancy a third incident to occur.

Hence the pair of them currently resided in the park. Sherlock was dressed in a black fitted suit, hidden by his infamous Belstaff and a navy cashmere scarf. He looked down to his son who had his small chubby palm clasped around two of Sherlock's long fingers. His cheeks were flushed with the cold of the morning. Not that his son was inherently bothered. He seemed more interested in the sights and sounds of the outside world. He used his free hand to point and feel at anything and everything that intrigued him. His gaze lifted up to meet his fathers, a gleeful expression spread across his young face. Sherlock noted once again the matching features his son had inherited. From his unruly dark hair, to his pert little lips and piercing blue eyes. He always suspected the Holmes genes were the most dominant after copious research undertaken during the pregnancy. Although, his nose was definitely Molly's.

His son was dressed in a bold red jumper, with navy pull ons, which were currently tucked into a pair of wellies a shade of red darker to his jumper. Sherlock couldn't help but admire the dark soft woollen garment, which covered his sons back. He briefly closed his eyes and thought back to an event five months ago.

...

Four seasons had came and gone like the breeze. Their son's first birthday was a joyous occasion, although Sherlock was not particularly enthralled at the amount of people this particular event seemed to attract to 221B Baker Street. A one year old surely had no need for presents or a party. A dressing gown in the style of a teddy bear, a toy train set with each carriage representing a letter for his son's name and a medium sized stuffed toy in the form of a dragon. Not to mention countless of other useless pieces of garbage Sherlock had identified in the pile, which invaded a quarter of their living room space. Clearly nobody seemed to think practically when it came to gifts.

Later that afternoon when finally the guests had dispersed, after an abundant amount of sandwiches, cake and small talk had been consumed, Sherlock flopped into his chair. Drained. Exasperated. Exhausted. To name a few words to describe his current mental state. Seventeen people in one flat for four hours and thirty six minutes was not an experience he wanted to repeat again.

He must have dozed off for a a short while as when he awoke the living room and kitchen had been cleared of plates, cutlery and cups. He could hear Molly in the kitchen washing up vigorously. He assumed she was just as exhausted as he was and was eager to get to bed. He noticed not too far from his feet his son lying in his baby bouncer. He was too preoccupied with the investigation of a small stuffed lion with his mouth to notice his father's gaze. Molly must have bathed him as he was dressed in his ivory white onesie with the initials AH elegantly stitched onto the small pocket to the right of his chest.

A gift from Sherlock's brother. Mycroft was never one for social gatherings and decided to acknowledge his nephew's birthday on his own terms. Own terms translated to a brief interlude from his 'important work' to belittle Sherlock in as many times as he could in 5 minutes and a quick sweep with his hand over the babe's head. He dropped a small package from his hands into Sherlock's lap. A firm nod was exchanged between the two brothers and he promptly turned on his heels and was out of the door.

Sherlock leaned over to pull the bouncer closer so he could observe his son more intently. Every little sound or action did not go unnoticed to Sherlock. He was pulled into another fond memory. It wasn't often Sherlock was 'surprised' but as he perused through his inbox one day from his desk, his son heaved himself up to clutch the edge of the sofa, as he had done twenty six times to Sherlock's knowing. This time the child turned to look at his father and took five wobbly steps toward him before he collapsed to the ground with a squeal of delight. It was the first time in a long time Sherlock described himself as speechless.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Molly entered the living room. Still dressed in the green floral fifty's style dress she had worn to celebrate their son's first year on planet Earth, with her hair fixed to the side. _Just how he liked it_. He could see she was holding a square black gift box which was neatly tied with a baby blue bow on top.

She offered him the box and as he took it he noticed the words 'Dearest Arthur' scrawled elegantly on the gift tag. He looked up slightly confused. Obviously it was a present for their dearly beloved offspring but her coy expression seemed to imply something else as well. He looked back down to the box in his lap and delicately unwrapped the bow around the box before he lifted the lid and folded back the translucent tissue paper.

Sherlock sat in silence and stared at the contents of the box. There before him was the unmistakable sight of a Belstaff coat. His fingers gently stroked the soft Irish wool and as he lifted the garment out of the box he smiled. It was identical to his own, apart from the size. His gaze turned to Molly, his smile told her everything she needed about his reaction to the present. Her own smile reflected just as brightly back at him.

She then proceeded to sit beside him. She removed the stuffed toy, without too much fuss, and lifted their son into his lap. He understood the intent of her action and he carefully placed the garment on the child's small frame. He lifted the boy in his arms and carefully placed him onto his feet in front of Molly and himself. He observed it was a little long on the arms, but seeing as it was only June he would have plenty of time to grow into it before winter approached.

He turned and placed a chaste kiss to Molly's lips and whispered a sincere thank you into her ear. It truly was one of the most thoughtful and practical gifts his son could own.

...

Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts by the release of pressure from his fingers. A plain brown twig lying in the middle of the path caught the attention of the small child as he charged towards it. He squatted down awkwardly as he placed a hand on the floor as he steadied himself to pick the twig up with his free hand. Clumsily, he stood up straight and examined the twig between his palms. A small squeal of delight came from the child as he clenched the stick out with one hand and lifted it up to the air for a thorough examination.

The child turned and ran back towards Sherlock, with a bit too much force, and collided into his long legs. The twig was still grasped in his hand as he held it outstretched for his father to see. Sherlock flipped his coat and squatted down to his son's level.

"That, Arthur is a twig. A slender shoot which has grown from the stem of a tree or a shrub. Notice how the end has frayed, almost like it has been pulled from a branch. I would suggest the doings of a small bird."

The child stared at Sherlock and then opened his little mouth and formed a small 'o'. Sherlock could almost see the process of information behind his son's steel blue eyes.

"Twig! Tree! Branch!" The young boy suddenly exclaimed, he then turned and pointed at a little black bird in the bushes a few yards from where they stood. "Burd!"

 _Almost._ Sherlock thought but he still smiled at his son's efforts, in particular his impressive ability to relate a word to a physical object at only seventeen months old. Then again, he always expected he would inherit some form of intelligence from his parents. The little boy tugged his curly mane whilst his other hand still clutched the twig. Sherlock recognised his son's hair pulling as a sign of impending tiredness and offered his arms to the boy. The small child instantly toddled forward and wrapped his chubby arms around his father's neck. Sherlock easily lifted him from the floor into his arms.

He noticed the heaviness of his son's head as he leant into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock turned around to walk them both back home; some warm milk and a cup of tea were in dire need.

Sherlock had to admit to himself that although he scoffed at Molly's initial idea of a trip to the park, he did rather approve. He noted to himself that he would most definitely be repeating this endeavour more often from now on. He couldn't deny that although he wasn't one for forging relationships, he was determined to make this a unique bonding session between father and son.

Sherlock, carefully removed the twig from his son's hands as he noticed his grip loosened as his tiredness set in. He deftly placed the twig in his son's coat pocket and observed how it fit perfectly in the depth of the compartment. He supported his legs with his right arm as he pulled the collar up on the child's coat with his left to protect his ears from the cold breeze, which had just started to pick up. Sherlock observed as his son let out a contented sigh and a little smile as he rubbed his left ear into his upturned collar against his fathers chest. It really was a perfect fit.

* * *

It felt right to name Sherlock and Molly's child after the man who made it all happen.

I also love how children can be intrigued and fascinated by the simplest of things and I wanted to write something based loosely around that concept. A twig is one of the simplest things I could think of.

Oh and the infamous Belstaff of course.

Lastly, I do apologise for the lack of Molly in this story. I really wanted to explore the relationship between father and son, so I let her take a back seat on this one.

Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.


End file.
